


The Robot Rat

by asparagusmama



Series: Oxford and the Doctor [3]
Category: Doctor Who (1963), Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse & Related Fandoms, Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: a cybermat, a nice trip out in Bessie, sunshine on sandstone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:05:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or Doctor Who and the Robot Rat</p><p>Where the Doctor and Liz go to Oxford at DS Morse's request to UNIT for help following the strange robotic rat creature found by a small boy in Park Town. What is it? Is it a one off or the precursor of an invasion? And if the Doctor finds it safe now, will it always be so?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Robot Rat

Dr Liz Shaw surveyed the mess of the hexagonal console and its exposed wiring and circuitry, parts and circuit boards littering both workbenches. She wondered, not for the first time, if the Doctor had the faintest idea what he was doing.

She sat down and placed her Army cocoa on the bench next to a rhomboid clear crystal of some unEarthy origin, possibly a component of the TARDIS, possibly a souvenir he had picked up in an alien quarry somewhere, for all she knew, and picked up a file with a sticky note attached to it,

“Doctor,  
“More your area than mine. If you could see to it.  
Lethbridge Stewart.”

Terse and to the point, Liz decided. She had seen him when she arrived that morning, looking very stern and cross, although once he had seen her he had been nothing but courteous and polite, as always, calling her ‘Miss’ Shaw, as was his wont.

I am a doctor and a scientist, a drafted scientist, she had thought yet again, I wish you would call me by my title, even more be as curt with me as you would your men. You drafted me, after all. These days she felt little more than she was seen as the Doctor’s glamorous assistant. It was so frustrating, as was knowing the Doctor. Sometimes she felt like throwing all she had learnt, several degrees and post doctorates out of the window. Compared to the Doctor she might as well be at infant school! As for the Brigadier, she had long ago given up reminding him she was Dr Shaw, not Miss. He was impossible, knowing all he was: an old-fashioned gentleman and officer to the very core.

She sighed again, took a sip of her cocoa, replaced it and began to read the file. A slamming door soon interrupted her,

“Of all the infuriating, stubborn, fat headed...” the Doctor broke of his tirade as soon as he saw Liz. “Oh, I didn’t see you m’dear. Good morning Liz.”

The Doctor’s ‘dearing’ she could take or leave, it didn’t rile her like ‘Miss’ Shaw. After all, the Brigadier, Yates and Benton were all equally ‘my dear’ to the Doctor. Equality here was the key. However, the file had disturbed her so she responded archly to the Doctor, demanding, “What has the Brigadier done now?” She uncrossed her legs and stood up. Knowing the Doctor, it could be anything!

“He’s refused all my requests for micro-circuit boards and quartz crystals. I simply must have something to cross-patch the omega configuration to...”

Liz knew he could go on for sometime, so she interrupted, “Has he finally figured out you are trying to repair your TARDIS, not use the equipment for UNIT matters then?”

The Doctor stopped pacing and looked at Liz sheepishly, clutching the back of his neck with his left hand.

“Well. Yes. I suppose he must have. What have you got there Liz?”

“It’s a report from the Oxford Police. According to Corporal Bell the report was filed yesterday evening. The Brigadier feels it’s your line of work, rather than the military’s.”

“Ours Liz, surely? We’re both scientists.”

“Oh. You do remember that do you? I’m certain the Brigadier has forgotten and just thought I was here to make your tea and pass you the test tubes.”

“Liz! I don’t think that, I...” the Doctor paused, looking thoughtful. “M’m. Well. Yes. Now you mention it...”

They grinned at each other and Liz passed the Doctor the report file. He flicked through it, scanning it quickly, but Liz knew he could read exceptionally quickly and take in all the pertinent facts. In a heartbeat. Or a human one, at least. His hearts beat much faster, as fast as his brain worked, perhaps?

The Doctor suddenly snorted out a laugh, “Really Liz! It’s probably a child’s toy!”

“But what kind of child Doctor?” Liz retorted. “I’ve heard whispers that all kinds of aliens lurk up at Oxford.”

The Doctor smiled. “Are you sure that isn’t just Cambridge snobbery Liz?”

“We up at Cambridge also seem to have one or two professors that seem to have been ensconced for a century or so. Probably Time Lords like yourself, the boring kind, the ones you moan about.”

“Do I moan Liz? About the Time Lords? Really?”

“You do little else,” Liz smiled placatingly. “It’s a lovely day. A drive up to Oxford would be nice, wouldn’t it? It will give you a chance to give Bessie a good run, if nothing else. We could take tea at Brown’s; explore the Covered Market’s second hand bookshops and bric-a-brac. You might even find something useful,” Liz nodded towards the TARDIS parked in the corner behind them. She could see he was beginning to waver. Her reminder that he had unburdened himself a regarding his own people and his exile had unsettled him, she sensed, so she was glad he was mellowing.

“Well,” the Doctor said slowly, “Alright. But I’ll tell you one thing I’m certain of.”

“What’s that?”

“It – whatever it turns out to be is most definitely not the toy of a Time Tot.”

‘Time Tot’, Liz thought, suppressing a laugh. How utterly pretentious and completely typical!

 

*

 

Despite still, to all intents and purposes, looking like a bright yellow Edwardian roadster, Bessie had been completely rebuilt inside. Whatever powered the car now, it most certainly was not a normal combustion engine and it definitely did not run on petrol. The Doctor had murmured something about artron energy and Liz had bit her tongue not to ask. The explanations would have only got more and more mystifying and complex, defying more and more all physics and chemistry she had ever learned, and it just wasn’t worth the headache.

However, she had been right, it was a lovely spring day, just right to be powering along the A40 through the Chilterns and its towns and villages. Bessie made short work of the open roads, going at no doubt at least four times as fast as a car that old ought to be able to go. They did not, however, despite the open top, feel any wind chill at all. Liz hazarded a guess at some sort of invisible force field, which if it was, was a new edition, and explained the recent tinkering. Whatever it was, whatever the alien science behind it, it was a most welcome edition.

They arrived in Oxford in just under an hour. The traffic was quite heavy from Headington, but in no time at all, they were crossing Magdalen Bridge and Liz felt herself perk up no end – although not Cambridge, the sight of the medieval college towers and spires made her feel almost at home.

“I do like Oxford,” the Doctor remarked. “I forget how much. It’s been a long while. Never changes. Where are we going Liz?”

“Turn left at Carfax Tower, I think.”

“Right you are.”

Liz leant back and smiled as they passed St Mary’s Church, with the Radcliffe Camera behind it, glinting in the sunshine. She was right. The distraction and ride out had improved the mood in both of them.

 

*

 

It had been a slow week, DS Morse reflected, as he sat at his desk, supposedly typing up a report of his latest case. His boss, DCI McNutt had taken early leave, to spend Easter in Jerusalem. McNutt’s faith had been troubling him for some years now. Not that had needed his presence; a couple of pillar boxes firebombed, no doubt left wing student sympathisers with the Catholics in Northern Ireland or protesting against Vietnam; a flasher in Christchurch Meadow, troubling female students, or amusing them, depending on which witness he had interviewed. Probably a sensible approach, although some of the more robust, crude, comments from two lady students had somewhat shocked him. Morse had arrested the flasher himself that morning. A sad, pathetic creature, damaged, like so many older men, by the war. Then there had been a nasty domestic murder, a man pushing his wife downs the stairs, but thankfully DS Dawson had been assigned to that case. On slow days like this, with no puzzles to solve, no active, open, serious investigations with obscure motive and impossible evidence, days with merely routine minutiae and paperwork, Morse almost missed Jakes constant ribbing, so bored was he.

A slight cough and a gentle tap at the door attracted his very distracted attention. WPC Murray stood at the door to McNutt’s office that he and Dawson had taken over for the fortnight. Behind her was an attractive young red-haired woman in a very short green mini dress with a gold link chain belt and heeled, expensive looking knee high dark green suede boots. Stood next to the good-looking woman was the most extraordinarily dressed man. He was tall, with a shock of almost white hair. That, surely, would be imposing enough for most men. However, this man obviously loved to stand out, perhaps he was in the musical theatre or some other form of entertainer, a children’s magician perhaps? He wore a dark olive green Edwardian smoking jacket of the deepest velvet, under which he wore a pale green shirt with frills on the front of it, topped with a large bow tie of a deep sea green. At his wrists the green lace of the shirt cuffs peeped out from the velvet smoking jacket’s cuffs artfully, strategically, no doubt, pulled out to exactly one and three quarter inches. Under this ensemble he wore black trousers and patent leather black boots. Morse was almost lost for words. He turned his gaze back for a moment to the strange man’s companion, the beautiful redhead, before looking at WPC Murray, who stood awkwardly in front of the strange pair.

“Yes Yvonne?”

“Sergeant Morse? These people are from the government,” she lowered her voice to add in a whisper, “UNIT.” She looked to Morse half terrified and half excited. “They say you’re expecting them,” she went on, looking at him with far more respect and interest than she usually did.

“Er, yes. Yes I am.” Morse was a little surprised. He had expected, perhaps, an army officer, accompanied maybe by a bespectacled, enthusiastic young scientist. Perhaps he had been going to the pictures too often with Joan? He stood up and hastily tried to tidy his desk of his scattered, uncompleted, paperwork and his far more completed Times and Oxford Herald crosswords. “Um. Come in. please. Sit down.”

“I see you’re fond of cryptic puzzles. Good workout for the brain, I’m sure you’ll agree? How did you find Dadaelus this morning?” the dandified man from UNIT commented.

“Not bad,” Morse found himself answering, “Seven minutes, eleven seconds. A bit of a struggle with fourteen down.”

“But you got there in the end, that’s the main thing eh?” the man said, smiling. He held out his hand. “I’m the Doctor, my colleague here is Dr Elizabeth Shaw.” They shook hands. He had a firm, masculine grip, despite the frills and velvet, Morse noted. He turned to the handsome woman,

“Dr Shaw. A pleasure.” They shook hands. She had small, soft hands. Morse let his grasp linger gently. She discreetly pulled away firmly. “Is that medicine, or...?” he asked, ignoring the snub, when did he ever get anywhere?

“One of my doctorates is medicine, yes,” she answered. One of them; she was obviously a very clever as well as attractive young woman.

Morse smiled and repeated, “Please sit down, both of you,” as Yvonne said at the same time, her eyes shining brightly with curiously,

“They’re both scientists sarge.”

Morse scowled. The WPC should really have left after showing them to the office. Besides, he disliked being called sarge intensely. Why couldn’t they say sergeant or DS, or even plain Morse, or sir would be even more preferable. Still, since the woman was here,

“Do you think you could lay on some tea for our guests Yvonne,” he asked, choosing not to correct her use of sarge yet again, not in front of these strange UNIT operatives.

“’Course sarge,” she said, closing the door behind her, not hearing, or choosing not to hear, as Morse could contain his irritation no longer, the tersely snapped,

“Sergeant constable, I’ll have sergeant from you.”

“Not fond of slang and appreciations, are we, old chap?” the man who called himself the Doctor said sympathetically.

“I despise slovenliness. It creates sloppy thinking,” Morse replied as he sat down.

“Quite right,” the Doctor agreed briskly, leaning back in his chair. “But look here,” he leaned forward again, “we received a message late yesterday evening about some form of robot rat. Might we see it?”

Morse looked from man to woman, both of whom sat looking at him, questioningly.

“And perhaps you might tell us where it was found and a little about how it came to police attention?” Dr Shaw asked gently, crossing and uncrossing her legs in a most distracting way.

“Of course,” Morse agreed. He bent under his desk to retrieve a cardboard box about a foot wide and two feet long. He lifted the lid and took out a silver object and placed it on the desk.

“Oh no,” the Doctor said, his voice barely concealing what could have been horror, as he stood, his left hand grasping the back of his neck.

The creature, or robotic rat, was little over a foot long; silver, with two large eyes and a long tail. Its body was segmented, as was its tail, like a woodlouse, and had many tiny legs under it, rather like a centipede. Yet, despite all that, there was something rodent about it. The robot, if that was what it was, was completely inert.

“What is it Doctor?” Liz asked.

“A Cybermat,” the Doctor whispered.

 

*

 

There was the usual male bonding discussion and comparison of cars and other boys’ toys as they walked through the police station car park to Bessie. However, there was no discussion, Liz observed with annoyance, as to who would sit in the back. Merely an assumption! As she climbed in the back of the Doctor’s roadster, aware of DS Morse’s look of appreciation of her legs as she did so, she realised she was more annoyed at herself. Why accept their assumptions without question?

Perhaps she was being unfair. No doubt the sergeant carried all the usual man’s assumptions and expectations of a woman’s role and place, her behaviour and manners, but the Doctor was an alien, not really a man at all. Who knew? Perhaps he merely thought she was being a ‘gentleman’, giving up her seat to the police sergeant. After all, he would talk just as animatedly and excitedly to her about all his little ‘improvements’ to the Edwardian roadster.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and the sunlight glinted off every spire and tower of soft sandstone yellow, and she enjoyed the short drive through the city centre and St Giles and up the tree lined, sunlight and pale spring green dabbled, Banbury Road to Park Town.

Park Town itself was a revelation. It was an ornate, beautiful, collection of curved terraces of early to mid Georgian houses, fronted all in white. It looked more like it belonged to Bath rather than medieval, Gothic and Romanesque, Oxford. She liked it very much and could not quite see how the robotic rat, the Cybermat, could have any place here.

Bessie pulled to a stop and they climbed out and walked up the front of the front door of the fine, old, grand, old house. Not so old, of course, by Oxford or Cambridge standards, but as many town centres of fine Georgian and Victorian design were being swept away in the tide of modernity of glass, steel and concrete, so called streets in the sky, something with such beauty and tradition over utility and theory was always a welcome sight. Liz hated the growing about of grey monstrosities growing in London and elsewhere. Now, there were places one could imagine Cybermats. Or even Cybermen.

The house was where a boy of nine had found the thing. It had given him a quite a nasty electric shock and a burnt hand, for all it had seemed completely inert since.

An older woman answered, wearing a faded cotton print shirt dress covered in a pink gingham overall. She was peeling off yellow marigold gloves as she opened the door. The ‘lady that does’, obviously, Liz thought, despising herself instantly for her snobbish, dismissive attitude.

They were shown at once to a quiet sitting room over-looking an elegant, well kept garden. The room was furnished in Laura Ashley and Habitat, with the odd piece of very nice antique mahogany occasional table and writing bureau. Through the window Liz could see the carefully trimmed line of low hedges edging the immaculately trimmed lawn and show room prefect patio, and beyond that she could see a climbing frame and swing, a vegetable patch and greenhouse, and finally a row of small apple trees. Behind that, a meadow and river, the Cherwell, Liz wondered, or a tributary? 

The mother was one of those slender, tall, elegant, clotheshorses that so many academics seemed to marry. Was that Biba, Liz wondered, of Mary Quant? It was a dress of vied turquoise, far shorter than Liz’s own serviable mini dress she’d found in Camden Market a while ago. Who would have thought clothes shopping with a man possible, but the Doctor had so enjoyed their day out in Camden! She had resolved to make in a regular treat. It was where he had bought his new boots.

The mother had little to add to her original statement and floundered at the additional questions she and the Doctor had. The char, a Mrs B, and a young, slender blonde creature called Greta, the au pair, were summoned.

Yes, the robot hadn’t moved. No, it hadn’t made a noise, apart from the crackle as the blue spark came from it’s underside as Toby picked it up. It was at the bottom of the garden, by the fence. Toby would always go down there if he could get out of Greta’s sight.

Mrs B was despatched to show Liz and the Doctor where the Cybermat had been found, whilst the lady of the house offered DS Morse tea. When they returned, none the wiser how a creature of the Cybermen, as Liz was trying not to think about it, had turned up on the banks of an Oxford stream, they found Morse deep in discussion concerning Wagner.

As they left, a chance remark from the Doctor had Mrs B complaining about the  
Fluctuating electricity supply, flickering lights, buzzing radios, the television switching on and off, and so on. The Electricity Board had been out twice but they couldn’t find a single fault. Bloody typical. The Unions had them all in their power these days; you couldn’t trust anyone to do a proper job...

“Thank you so much Mrs Brant,” the Doctor said on the doorstep, interrupting her flow, but taking her hands to shake, his eyes twinkling kindly, his smile deep, creasing his lined face. Trust the Doctor to bother to find out what the B stood for, thought Liz.

 

*

 

Once they were back out on the street, Morse headed for Bessie.

“Oh no Sergeant Morse. We need to find out how wide spread this problem is with the power supply.”

“I don’t think I’, able to authorise the man-power for a door to door like that Doctor. Your commander at UNIT would have to go to my CS, and even then, I’m not sure...”

“Nonsense! It won’t take us long if we each do our bit. There are three of us, you know?” The Doctor grinned at Liz as he said this. She rolled her eyes at him. Even with all three of them, there were a lot of houses in Park Town, many no doubt converted into flats.

However, she kept her thought to herself, knowing what a fluctuating power supply might signify, which was why, almost four hours later, she found herself collapsed on Bessie’s bonnet, gasping for a glass of water and a cup of tea, feet aching, regretting the choice of heeled boots that morning. After a while, the whole interviews and interviewees merged in her br4ain into a homogenous grouping of ladies in afternoon tea frocks, mumsy wives in flowered little pocketed aprons over short skirts or dresses, older charwomen in longer, flower-printed dresses and pinnies and long legged, long tressed, au piers sporting a variety of Scandinavian, Germanic and Latin accents. Apart from the chiropractor and the psychologies, not a man was at home on this fine, Spring afternoon, and then they had left her with their smartly dressed secretaries. Apart from a few crying babies and shy toddlers, not a child to be seen either. It was a living hell of suburban emptiness. Liz shuddered as she remembered. She was never marrying! She valued her career, her independence and her mind too much to have it all sucked away in such an empty, soulless existence.

She began to appreciate all Simone de Beauvoir and Betty Friedan had been writing about – both had been de rigour while she had been an undergraduate. Now it was all Germaine Greer, whom she had yet to read. It might have been France and the States, but Friedan would certainly have sadly recognised the state of Park Town as nothing but another example of the ‘problem with no name’!

As for information; she had none to speak of. Not other sightings of silver robots, rat nor man shaped, thankfully. Liz had read of the incident in the City of London back ion the sixties, and was not at all comfortable about meeting a Cybermen.

Nor had there been any other reports that she heard of power fluctuations.

“Find anything useful Dr Shaw?” DS Morse asked, approaching her and lighting a cigarette. He offered her one. She declined.

“There are a few more reportings of these interruptions to the electrical supply,” DS Morse said awkwardly, “but those having the problems all seem to be nearer the Banbury Road end. Do you think that is of any use to the Doctor?” he asked hesitantly.

Liz watched the Doctor approach as she considered. He stopped to speak to a group of schoolboys in blazers and caps carrying satchels.

“Possibly,” she replied slowly, wondering what the Doctor was asking them. It seemed quite an animated conversation. “If something is actually drawing power in situ. But who knows, there could just be a fault with the switching station or storage unit. Was that a sub station we passed as we came in, at the junction?”

“No. That’s a public convenience. We have problems there in the City Police, but not with stealing power. I you understand my meaning and forgive my indelicacy, Dr Shaw?”

“What?” Liz was puzzled for a moment then understood exactly the nature of the crime the young sergeant was talking of, “Oh! No, that’s fine, no offence taken Sergeant Morse.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Morse asked awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.

“What is?”

“One would suppose following the Sexual Offences Act three yeas ago this sort of sordid liaison would have ended, but no, it continues, and in fact seems more common, my colleagues in Vice tell me.”

“Nothing to do with UNIT however,” Liz snapped, a little more curtly than she would have liked. She was rapidly going off this charming, pretty sergeant. perhaps it was genuine curiosity rather than prejudice, but given he was a police officer...

“What has nothing to do with us Liz?” the Doctor asked cheerfully, appearing behind her as if from nowhere.

“Perverts in public toilets,” Liz said, more to test the sergeant than any belief that these men were perverted. More likely they were lonely, and perhaps a little desperate. Not going to prison was a long way from being able to set up home and live in peace with the person of your choice free from prejudice and hatred and persecution. She noticed young Morse wince at the use of the word, so perhaps he had been merely curious and making awkward conversation. In the absence of Wagner, perhaps he was at a loss with women?

“I... I don’t understand?” the Doctor really did look baffled, grabbing the back of his neck and looking down on her and Morse from his tall height, a bewildered expression on his mobile, expressive features.

“I’ll explain later Doctor,” Liz said briskly, not wanting to get in the human birds and bees – or bees and bees! – at that time. “The important thing is not one sighting between us. I’ve had no reports of the power fluctuating either, but Sergeant Morse had some, all near to the main road, and the public convenience near to it. which is why we were talking about it, and other crimes related to it.”

“Ah. I see,” the Doctor grabbed his neck again, then fiddled with his frilly cuff. “Or rather I don’t. Not really. But other reports of loss of power and interferences in the eletrical current you say sergeant?”

Morse nodded.

“And near the Banbury Road end. Perhaps we need to set up a watch. I’ve been talking to the school children as they were coming home. It occurred to me that they are far more likely to come across any Cybermat – or other – activity.”

“And anything Doctor?” Liz asked.

“Not a thing.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Morse asked.

“Yes. Possibly. One should hope so. Now, Detective Sergeant, this is important: has there been any disappearances, any missing people, reported in this part of Oxford? Any at all? In, say, the last two to three years, maybe going back the last five to be safe?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. But I would need to check the files to confirm that.”

“Yes. Good idea old chap. Shall we do that now? I can telephone the Brigadier at the police station at the same time. A discreet 48 hour surveillance centring on that public convenience and the first eight houses either side of the road, their gardens and stream and the meadow behind the odd numbers would be a good idea, though. Just to be safe, you know.” He massaged his neck and looked off into the middle distance.

“What do you suspect?” asked Morse, bright, curious, and more than a little alarmed.

“Need to know, m’dear Morse, need to know. I hope I’m wrong, I really do. Believe me, it’s best you never have to know.”

Morse looked to Liz, alarmed. She looked at him gently, “He’s right, you know. Let’s hope he’s wrong. There is no evidence, as far as I can tell.”

 

*

 

The police records showed no reported missing person or other sighting of silver rat or man. The UNIT 48 hours surveillance saw nothing but the coming and goings of the neighbours to and from word and other activities, the women go out to the shops, the children playing, the chars and cleaners go home in the evening and at night the lonely and desperate men seeking solace in brief moments of bliss in the gents. But nothing sinister, or alien, nothing at all to explain power fluctuations of where one solitary Cybermat had come from. There hadn’t even been any in the London Event.

It was filed under the UNIT records as: No Threat. No Action. The one, lone, inert Cybermat was put in a box and stored at the HQ, later moved to the new HQ, then the Glasshouse, then the Black Archive and finally finding its way to the Tower of London some forty years later, where Corporal Osgood’s yet unborn daughter dissected it to see how much was technology and how much was organic and how it worked.

Meanwhile, the power fluctuations of the first sixteen houses of Park Town continued, unexplained.


End file.
